• I know you do not know me. Part of me does not care. This record of my beginning is, perhaps, only to ease my long mind, and allow me to push some things behind me, in my many years. Read if you will, it does not bother me.

    It was June 11, 1530, when I was first brought to the world. It was not in the form you see before you. It was my first life. My father, a Catholic priest, was a stern man, my mother, some would say weak natured, and addicted to sins of the flesh. In this time, Priests were supposed to be devout, Chaste, and unforgiving. Forgiving was for god alone to decide, not they, but it was a well known fact that the fathers were not ones to be crossed.

    My name was Spéira, (Translated Sky *female*). That name means as little to me now, as many of the years I lived under it. I was born with Red hair, pale silver gray fur, with some darker gray markings. My eyes were pale Silver, like the moon through thin clouds, a trait that my mother had thought I would outgrow, and also feared that I might be blind due to its oddness. Not much about my features have changed, but I grow off topic. I am telling about my life, not how I appeared.

    It was obvious why my father did not appreciate me. He was not supposed to have sinned, and my presence was a content reminder to his deed. It helped even less, the fact that I was a female. In a time where women were born sinners, and were deemed a lowly life of maintaining the house and children, being a woman was in itself a curse of its own.

    It was in a grove, beneath a willow tree, that I found my first and most close friend. Eyes closed, trying to block out the hardships of the day, I picked my voice up in song. That in it, some would say a sin, as being anything but solemn, it seemed, was. I was young enough not to put much thought in that. I heard a rustle in the hanging branches in the trees, as I sang. Eyes closed, I felt a presence, much more Omnipresent than anything I felt for that of the Catholic God. I felt the urge to dance.

    Eyes still closed, I took, what I had assumed, were hands, though they did not feel solid, more like a flowing source that tickled the fur on my paws. We danced, as I sang, for quite a while. The presence, the wind, Made music with the blades of the grass, to match that of my song. My eyes opened, and there was no one there. If I had paid attention at church, I might have been afraid, but I was just a pup of five, and I was more amazed than anything. It was almost evening when I went back home, having played all sorts of games with the wind. My red hair was a mess, my dress, covered in dust and flakes of grass.

    Beatings were a commonplace in those days. "Spare the rod, Spoil the child," as they say. My mother took one look at me, and was furious. What had started in a wonderful day, ended with a rough and painful chastisement. Never the less, I found myself going back to that tree often as permitted, and playing with my new found friend. Learning things that the wind would do with me, learning just what words to say, to properly ask him. I had gotten to the point where he would even lift me in his arms. Mind you, to this day, I don't know if my dear friend is a male or female...It just seems far easier to convey the wind as masculine.

    My father would ignore me most often, even when my mother brought me to church. She listened dutifully to his sermons, whilst I was busy admiring the intricate pictures on the walls, of some wolf, going through various forms of torture, only to be nailed to two pieces of wood. It seemed mortifying, and though I begged my mother not to take me to that scary place, I would always earn a chastisement, and be brought none the less.

    One morning, I awoke to the sound of my father and my mother, deep in argument. My father wanted my mother to move, to take away the sight of me, but my mother said she would not, that she had family in this small town, that she could not bear to be away from them. I got dressed, and slipped out, doing my best not to get my presence noticed by the dark wolf in black robes.

    Looking back, I could see that this was a fault that I should have merely hidden beneath my bed. I do not regret what happened, for I had no way to fix what has been done. I have become content with myself, now, and know that there is no magic that can turn back time, and fix what mistakes had been dealt.

    My voice was rugged at first, singing a sad song, about the events that had taken place, about my lot in life, and my hard father. I heard, not with my ears, the wind pick up its own tale, within the breeze, it's own song
    blended with mine, which slowly and slowly got happier. By the end, me and the wind were dancing, and singing about what joys would come after all of this, about love, life, and freedom.

    I was Naive. My voice was louder and more merry than it ought to have been. I believe that may have been what had directed my father to the tree. Whilst I was dancing and singing, I didn't hear the leaves rustle again. I didn't hear the wind fall silent, though still there. It was so sudden, I spun in dance, only to come into contact with a strong, solid slap to the muzzle. I fell back, tears threatening to spring forward, looking up to the infuriated face of my father.

    "Witch..." he snarled.

    That one word, that seemingly simple five lettered word, in those times, was enough to strike fear into many people’s hearts. I, who had not paid attention in church, heard them, as though they were some foreign language, some dialect that I had never heard. The events there after, are minimal. If it were not the fact that I was the Priests own blood, I likely would have been burned. I spent a year on the streets, Ostracized, unable to even purchase my own food, with what little coin I had. I had to become a thief, to grant some purchase in my never ending hunger.

    I was Fifteen, when the worst happened. Yes, I know... As if being ostracized by your own family, your own people, were not bad enough. The royal guards, who protected the town, had a bit too much mead one night. I sat in a corner in an alleyway, hungry, and filthy, when I heard there voices grow near. Usually, no one paid any attention to me, so it startled me when the voices stopped, and one of the guards gave a cruel chuckle.

    What transpired next, was horrid, and I dare not speak of it. I will say, that due to that, I still find it hard, to trust some dragons, when they are in uniform.

    I was cast out of town, unconscious. I remember very little of that, except waking, sure the ferals would be at me, and the pain would end. I woke in a dark room, in which I couldn't even make out the light of day or
    night. I was bandaged up, cleaned, but I had an unfamiliar wound on my neck, that was sore, and aggravated.

    Many nights passed, and I could feel myself growing weaker, and the wound never seeming to heal. There were several nights where I was awoken to the door closing, behind someone. I grew weary, wanting out of the dark place, wanting the pain to stop.

    Looking back, I have to laugh. How foolish I was, to have attempted this, but at the time, I did not know the things know now, I did not know there were worse things to fear than nightmares and the occasional demon under your bed. I was sixteen. Rightfully a woman, but still for the most part, a child.

    I stayed up, one time. I assumed they had been nights. It is hard to tell when you are in a room with no sunlight. I heard the door open, after a while of me pretending to be sleeping, and heard someone slip in. The sound came closer, and paused, before continuing right to my side on the bed. I sprang up, tackling him with a snarl. I beat at him, hurting myself far more than the creature before me.

    (Continued...)